


Milkshake

by crabapplered



Category: Resident Evil 4 - Fandom
Genre: Drugs, Lactation Kink, M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Umbrella's milkshake is what's got Leon coming to the yard- erm, town of Pawnee. But things take a decided turn for the odd when Leon finds out just what they've been cooking up in their underground lair. There's action, there's sex, there's some silly tributes to the original games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milkshake

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote as a change of pace after finishing Knife. It started as a sort of gag fic based on weird 4chan art, and the it kinda went berserk. Oops.

Pawnee is a fair-sized town for the back-of-beyond, and though there are grass and plains here instead of trees and mountains, it's got the almost whimsical mix of clean-lined modern architecture and classic older buildings that brings back memories of Raccoon. Then again, maybe it's less the local charm and more the zombie epidemic that has Leon thinking back to his first disastrous run-in with the results Umbrella's handiwork. Dead-not-dead people, wrecked cars, the occasional burnt-out building.

The cows are a new twist, though.

"What's up with Bessie?" he asks, jerking a thumb at the quarantine fence.

"It's in the report. Or don't you fancypants big-city government types bother readin' what we local-yokels send you?" Simon- no, Sampson, that's the guy's name. All salt and pepper hair, respectable lines; a hard-bodied man and an extremely territorial Chief of Police.

A sharp dresser, too. That uniform is ironed, for sure, and the badges and boots polished to a high sheen. In his usual plain black T-shirt and battered denim Leon feels positively scruffy. Bets it's intentional, Mr Big-Wig cop doing his best to throw sophistication in the Special Agent's face, remind him they aren't all rednecks out in the boonies.

_Jeeze. You'd think something as ridiculous as undead cows would put a damper on pissing contests. Guess playing little tin god is more important then figuring out if the yogurt's gone bad in more ways then one._ "Any reports sent in are read by my superiors to do threat assessment. I'm only given the basics when they send me out - they figure it's better to let you guys fill me in so I get a more detailed local perspective," Leon says, laying on the charm and flashing a half-smile. "It's to help keep me from making assumptions or missing something important 'cause I don't have the right context."

It works enough to get the stick out of Chief Sampson's ass at least a couple of inches; he huffs a sigh and explains, "We're not sure where they came from, but we think they're the watcha-call-it. The vector. For the infection, you know?"

"They've been biting people?" PETA will be happy.

"Naw, naw. Least-wise, not that we can tell. More like they showed up in ones or twos in the slums, and suddenly we had the start of an epidemic. We think people tried eatin' 'em and there was somethin' in the meat. Tests aren't back yet, though."

Leon frowns thoughtfully at the cow, at its glittering red eyes. Its bottom jaw hangs slack, drool hanging in long strings that sway with the motion that's just a shade too slight to be called chewing. "Are the stockyards part of the quarantined area?"

"Nope. Nothin' popped up there. We figure, well, maybe a shipping truck got overturned or somthin' in the ghetto and cows got loose. Can't find the truck, but that don't mean nothin' for that neighbourhood, you know? Shame," Sampson continues, frost now edging his words. "It'd be nice to know who sent this little gift to us."

"A twenty says it's Umbrella, or at least what's left of them. We're pretty sure you've got some kind of lab hidden away here." He turns his back on the cow and starts to walk off toward the makeshift police command post, resolutely ignoring the chill that creeps up his spine and lingers on the nape of his neck. That cow doesn't act right for a T-virus carrier. Doesn't have the symptoms for G, either. "Get them to quarantine the stockyards. Might as well cover all our bases."

Sampson grunts sourly. "Don't see why we need to bother. There's pretty much no-one left here since they all evacuated. Figure the bigwig's are just gonna nuke this place like they did Raccoon, so. No point in stayin'."

Now there's a nasty assumption. And it certainly explains Sampson's prickly attitude. Leon can't really blame the guy for making it, either, but he'd thought it was obvious: "The government isn't going to nuke Pawnee unless it's absolutely necessary," he says firmly. "You got it contained early enough that we should still be able to salvage things. In a few days the B.S.A.A will be sending in troops to clean out whatever's infected, and in the meantime I'll be going in to see if I can find whatever lab cooked up this wacky new outbreak and neutralize it."

"Ain't nothin' 'wacky' about good folk being turned into monsters," growls Sampson. "And nevermind it was cows that helped do it." But the words don't have the bite to them that they could and there's less bristle to his body language. Leon re-writes his earlier opinion: not so much pissing contest as helpless anger and resentment at losing the town to government expediency.

He wonders if he'd have felt the same way about Raccoon if he'd had the chance to love the place. Is - almost - jealous.

He pushes the thought from his mind. "You know the drill: I'll need a map of the area, the sewer systems, and the analysis of the spread of infection," he says. "And basic supplies for a few days, if you've got 'em. I spent three weeks in Alaska before getting the call for this - I'm kinda desperate from something other then survival rations."

Not to mention ready to commit homicide if he sees another package of pemmican.

~

Umbrella facilities are actually fairly easy to find. The catch is, of course, that you have to be looking for them. A bit of cross referencing between the list of known front companies, the neighbourhood maps and the sewer layout, and then a quick double check at the estimated pattern for the infection's spread gets him a city block that hovers just this side of the ghetto. An apartment building, a really ugly little park, and an ice cream parlour that's seen better days share the space with a set of office buildings whose list of tenants are in constant flux.

It's a great setup for Umbrella - place for their employees to live, work, relax, and lure in potential test subjects.

_No-one ever checks the rainbow sprinkles for roofies,_ Leon thinks as he casually shoots out the front window of Silver Scoops and climbs through, careful of broken glass. If there's anyplace where Umbrella will have been playing God it's here, where it can have people taste-test its products without ever realizing it. _With the park next door, they must have done pretty good business. Wonder how many kids got sick from something other than too much ice cream?_

And not just sick from the drugs and viral crap Umbrella would have been lacing the Raspberry Ripple with, either. _It's like they've never heard of food safety and sanitation,_ he muses as he slips into the back rooms and scans for what he knows he'll find: a hatch leading down into the sewers.

He likes to think that Umbrella's inability to resist using sewage systems to move their products around says something profound about them.

Soft sound to his left. The faint rattle of the knob on a blue-painted door with 'Office' stencilled in faded white lettering. A survivor? Or-

"Hey! Anyone there?" Leon calls.

Mumbling. A low groan, and the handle rattles again, turns. The door opens, and out stumbles what looks like the shop owner - or what's left of him, anyways.

There's been surprisingly few infected so far, and the ones that there are have been odd. Sluggish, un-coordinated, even for zombies. Some do nothing more then flop around on their backs, drag themselves across the ground with limp legs and shaking arms. Others walk into walls, claw at their own faces. If Umbrella's been cooking up something new here then there's more than a few bugs in the works.

This one's just as odd. He - it, at this point, really - is mottled, skin grey and decayed in places, pale and waxy and untouched in others. "P'stah~~ciohh~" it groans, staggering toward him with outstretched hands and blank, empty red eyes.

He shoots it. Twice, in the face. Watches it collapse in a heap. Frowns down at it as the blood pools around it and mats its thinning brown hair, stains its worn white apron and faded green T-shirt.

"Pistachio? I'm a pretty solid fan of Maple Walnut, myself, but it's still not gonna be the last words I choke out as a zombie. What the hell is going on here?"

The zombie's a proper corpse now, though, so it's not answering. He bends and riffles though the pockets of its ripped jeans. Pauses in the middle of it because the thing doesn't even _smell_ right. Most zombies reek of decay, of meat gone bad, and this one's got the oder but-

_Hazelnut. Is it from this guy, or did he just spill some Coffee-Mate before his infection?_ He rolls the body over and stares at the ruin of its face. _And red eyes. Definitely not right for either T or G. I think it's time I made a phone call._

It takes a few rings before Hunnigan's face pops up on the screen of his vidphone. By then he's managed to find the hatch to the sewers, tucked away in a discreet corner of the supply room. He's in the middle of opening it with the heavy red valve he'd found in the zombie's office when her sharp {{Leon?}} gets his attention. He pulls the vidphone from his back pocket.

"Hey, Hunnigan."

As usual she's got her hair pulled back too severely for his taste, and those damn glasses are hiding her dark eyes. All business. Her pretty face is marred by a slight frown as she takes in him image. {{Is something wrong? You weren't due to check in for another few hours.}}

"Kinda. You gotten the test results for the Pawnee infection yet?"

{{Sure. It's fairly standard T-virus, though this strain seems a bit weaker. Why?}}

"The locals aren't reacting to it right." He explains about the odd behaviour, the eyes, the smell. The talking.

{{It actually said 'pistachio'? That's weird.}}

"Yeah. I always thought zombies would be more the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough types, myself."

She rolls her eyes. {{We're not having this discussion. I'll notify the lab techs and the B.S.A.A. about the altered symptoms - maybe they can come up with something. In the meantime, do you still feel comfortable going into the lab? You're not exactly immune to the regular T-virus, and if this one has been twisted into something new then there's no telling what's down there.}}

"There's never any way of telling what Umbrella's got in store," he tells her. "I'll be fine. Besides, we don't exactly have time to waste. Pretty much every Umbrella facility's got a self destruction sequence, and I'd like to make sure this one doesn't go off." He pauses. "The Chief of Police thought we were going to nuke this place, by the way. You might wanna talk with the PR department about that."

{{Leon, we're an unofficial government branch with the highest level security and we do almost nothing but black ops. We don't _have_ a PR department.}}

"That might be part of the problem."

{{. . . I'm hanging up now. Check in is in three hours. Don't be late.}}

And the screen goes black.

"Guess it's just me, myself and I, now," he mutters as he tucks away the vidphone. He hauls up the hatch, peers down into it. Huffs a sigh as a wave of fetid air hits him full in the face. Why a company as high-tech as Umbrella can't manage-

Noise from behind him.

He turns just in time to catch its lunge, and he flails and kicks, frantic, twists like a cat and manages to throw the thing off, and his gun is in his hands again, his back is pressed to the wall and his eyes are huge, wide with surprise.

It's still moving. He's blown out its brains and it's still moving, staggering back to its feet, head lolling on its neck, limp, limbs barely coordinated though it sure seems enough to bring it back into position for another attack.

"P'stahh~" it moans. "_P'stahh~~_" and comes for him again.

Three more shots, two to the wreckage of its head and one to the chest have it staggering backwards with part of its skull missing, crumpling to its knees. But it's getting up again and it's got him cornered. He needs more room.

And it's changing, right before his eyes. Flesh melting like butter, reforming into something sicker and stranger and with a hell of a lot more teeth and Leon isn't about to stand there and watch it. He shoots it four more times and then, as it's staggering, hauls ass down into the sewer tunnel, closing the hatch behind him. Locking it. Thank God Umbrella sprung for a cheap fluorescent lighting setup down here, that it still works, that it's still turned on.

Thump, thump. Thump. It's already recovered enough to batter clumsily at the hatch, and Leon wishes he'd brought something heavier then his little Silver Ghost.

"Next time I'm bringing my magnum, even if the holster _is_ a bitch to deal with," he grumbles. Spins right. Fires, because there's something down in here with him, creeping up and hungry for his blood.

The oversized rat he's shot crumples. The six others that have swarmed up with it flinch back, milling around their fallen friend and picking frantically at its wound.

They rip at its flesh, eat it, even as it begins healing. It squeals and they overwhelm it, and Leon backs away.

Glittering red eyes and patch-work rot. The stink of hazelnut over everything. God only knows what Umbrella's cooked up here, but Leon's got no choice to go further down the rabbit hole and gamble he'll find some answers - going back the way he came is too high a risk. There's nothing but gnawed bones and sinew left of the first rat at this point, and he can still hear the dull thump of the Pistachio Monster at the hatch above.

He shoots another rat. Dashes off into the gloom of the sewers as the second feeding frenzy erupts.

~

Sewers are hell to navigate at the best of times. Sewers filled with enormous mutant cannibal rats who seem perfectly willing to try human meat as well? With a psychotic regenerating pistachio freak waiting at the exit and God knows what other mutant horrors waiting in the wings? Not to mention the threat of whatever strain of the T-virus has produced these exiting new developments.

It's a nightmare, but it's a familiar one to Leon, so if his heart beats triple time it's at least not the senseless flutter of full panic.

He's worried about roaming too far, though. Whatever Umbrella is using as an access point to its labs, it has to be close. And so he plays a dangerous game, hugging the walls and fading into what little shadow the flickering fluorescents provide, freezing at the slightest sound. He's got limited ammo, and though it seems the rats _can_ be killed, he can't afford to try and exterminate them all.

Weird that they haven't picked up on his scent. Is their hazelnut stink getting in the way, or are they just dumb? You can never tell with Umbrella spawn. He turns the possibilities over in his mind as he does slow circuits through the tunnels, careful of his footing on the cement. It's relatively clean here, if you ignore the muck flowing through the central channel, but the walls are still mildewed and the place still reeks of shit and piss, it's damp and it's ugly and it's got bones scattered in dead ends as testament to the rats' efficiency.

He searches those bones. Down here like this, they've gotta be Umbrella staff, right? And the rats don't seem to touch the clothing, so with the telltale glints of metal in the shadows, he finds car keys and earrings, a silver paperweight engraved with the company motto which he pockets out of habit and, bingo! A badge leads him to what looks like a security guard's uniform.

From that he gets two keycards, one flashdrive, and a couple of magazines of 9mm ammo, and he tucks it all away into his buttpack. A bit of backtracking on a hunch, and he finds another dead end, this one with an elevator door in it instead of human remains.

People often mix up right and left when they're panicking. It's probably what got most of them killed down here.

The elevator opens obediently when he swipes one of the keycards through the reader. No floor choice, he notices as he steps inside. Just up and all the way down, and the lingering smell of hazelnut. By the time he's done with this place he'll have to change his regular order at the Java Jive.

_As if I didn't have enough reason to hate Umbrella_, he thinks as the elevator speeds downwards.

~

When the elevator doors finally slide open, it's to reveal a lobby dominated by an enormous steel plaque riveted to the wall, an Umbrella symbol in etched into it's surface and 'Umbrella Laboratory' scrawled beneath it in huge block letters. Bloody hand prints and smears of gore add that perfect accent to the company logo.

It's pretty obvious what left the marks: there's bodies here, two of them, collapsed side by side against the wall near the far door. Both women in the ragged remains of lab coats and pantsuits. Zombies? He peers at them from where he stands, but their dark skin keeps him from making out any traces of rot.

He edges closer, careful, mindful of how many times the seemingly dead have jerked to their feet. Even more so of how Pistachio had gotten back up after four rounds to the skull.

He nudges one of the bodies' feet. The shoe falls off, little kitten heels in black, and they're disconcertingly girly on such a gristly thing, with its hair torn out in clumps and its body twisted, face locked in an agonized scream. There's no reaction. Even when he gives it a solid kick to the ankle.

He breaths a sigh of relief.

The other corpse's eyes snap open.

"_Shit!_" and he scrambles back, gun coming up and aiming but-

-but there's something off. Something wrong.

He pauses and waits. And waits. The glittering red eyes roll madly in their sockets, the jaw works uselessly, tongue snaking about and lashing the air, sending spittle flying. But other then that. . . other then that, it doesn't move. At all. Nothing from the neck down.

Nervous, but burningly curious, he comes closer. It snaps its teeth and glares, but doesn't so much as twitch a finger.

_It's paralysed_, he realizes. _It's lungs probably don't work, that's why it's mute. How- how's this even possible?_

Helpless and mad as it is, for the first time he's able to feel pity for such a creature. They've always made some part of his soul shriek, but now that he's seeing one up close and ruined like this he can really appreciate the blasphemy that Umbrella's created.

No need to shoot this one. He simply pulls out his knife and stabs it, deep into it's eye socket. The tongue, pallid and too-long, slicks out, twists around his wrists and writhes like some bloated worm. Is it evolving toward becoming a Licker despite being crippled? He yanks the knife out and stabs it again through the other eye, then again and again until its face is a true ruin. Pistachio had taken four rounds to the skull and kept kicking - now's the time to find out what it takes to kill these new horrors.

In the end he's not sure what it takes; it was either the complete destruction of the thing's brain stem or a simple overload of damage. Whichever it was, the result is sudden and obvious as the quivering mush of the infected skull simply dissolves, leaving behind a sticky puddle and a headless corpse. Disgusting. Nice to know they're still killable, though.

Blood on his hands and his clothing and gumming up his blade. He wipes it off on the thing's ruined lab coat and re-sheaths his knife. Moves deeper into the complex.

From the reception area with it's wilting potted plants to the sparse office space to the empty halls and the connecting labs. Bloody footprints stagger about his route. Scattered paper and overturned chairs, dropped pens and pencils litter the floor. The hum of the air conditioner and his own breathing are the only break in the eerie quiet.

He scans each room he moves into, a slow search with his gun out and it's a damned good thing he does that because there's some _thing_ in the second lab crammed up into a corner of the ceiling, a hideous naked creature with its blood-flushed face distorted in a too-wide smile and so many teeth they spill out to stud its chin, its tongue hanging lose and it's not a Licker, not quite, but its enormous claws and freakish tongue and thinning hair show it's not far off.

It's also big. Very big, and has too much muscle for a normal Licker. Not a good sign.

His gun is going to be shit for this.

It jumps for him, a tiger's lunge, and he dives for the dubious safety of a lab bench. Scrambles under it, and scrambles out just as fast as those enormous claws go right through the metal top and miss his nose by inches. It's stuck just long enough for him to stagger to his feet and shoot it a few times, but it yanks free before he can do any real damage.

It can be killed. Leon knows it, chants it to himself to keep the panic back during their high speed game of cat and mouse. He ducks and weaves between lab benches, overturns stools, slips on papers and jams his hip on a desk corner. He dodges the thing's javelin tongue narrowly enough that saliva spatters his face. Flinches back as a bank of computers, still active, take damage and smoke and spark, as the halogen lighting above is shattered when the creature jumps and clings to the ceiling, claws breaking glass tubing and sending it showering down.

He throws a coffee cup at it, desperate, and it jerks as the tepid liquid splashes into its lidless red eyes. Hangs still for a moment. Leon takes aim, and fires.

Six rounds into the base of the skull. It howls and crashes down, impaling itself on the metal frame someone had been using to hold test tubes, and Leon is on it in an instant, knife out and swinging.

Three, four strikes, and its head comes free. The decapitated body thrashes, the head hits the floor with a melon's hollow thump, and there's the briefest of pause before it all dissolves into so much syrupy black mush.

Leon gives himself fifteen seconds to catch his breath. Then his gun is back up and he's scanning the room again.

Swears and reloads as he sees something shambling toward him through the door to the hall. Breaths a sigh of relief as he sees its arms are limp and useless, that it's so uncoordinated it stumbles into the door frame. Killing it is simple.

It goes on like that, Leon pressing further into the complex, confronted by creatures that are sometimes more then they should be, but often times less. He doesn't know what's caused this weird patchy version of the T-virus. Only that in cases where things seem to have fully matured the resulting carrier is stronger, bigger, faster then they should be. So much so that he's hard pressed to keep ahead of things, that he's running out of ammo despite how he tries to use his knife when possible. It's only the fact that the facility and its staff is so small that's kept him from being swamped.

Though there's a bad moment - five zombies tumbling out of the men's room, clawing across the floor and over each other in a twisting mess of arms and legs and gaping mouths, moving way too fast for things whose legs don't seem to work, and Leon ducks through a side door in desperation, finds himself face to face with the remains of a guard in what has to be the security room.

The guard is one of the crippled things. Does nothing but stand and shake like it's being electrocuted, back arched and red eyes smoldering with hate and hunger and Leon pays it no mind because there's a shotgun dropped on the floor beside it.

A _shotgun_. A beautiful Benelli M4 Super 90, sleek and black and powerful, twelve gauge salvation with solid slug redemption. Leon's on it in an instant, fingers wrapping lovingly around grip and barrel to cradle the thing close.

Ammo. He needs ammo, scrambles madly around the room and finds an handful of rounds in a desk drawer, a few boxes more in the pair of lockers, just enough to save his ass as that nightmare mess of flesh from the men's room bursts through the door, overwhelming what was the guard and tumbling toward Leon.

He pumps round after round into it, until it lies limp and twitching madly, until it wails and claws at its own flesh, until the whole mess of it liquefies and stains the floor, oozes out in a wretched puddle that laps at his boots.

With the riot gun in his hands he lets himself feel just a shade safer. More confident.

It almost gets him killed.

Because he's into the dimly lit labs where they kept the cows, now. Walking between the double rows of stalls that seem empty until he peers into one, sees the bones. And he's wondering if the rats got in until he sees it lumbering out of the shadows around the bend: Huge and bloated and piebald, muscled to the point of caricature. Two sets of twisting, curved horns. Six red eyes clustered on a misshapen forehead. And teeth. The thing has _teeth_, the way sharks have teeth, the way Lickers have teeth, the way things built only to rend and tear and _eat_ have teeth.

It is -or was- a cow.

A fucking _nightmare cow_.

Leon does the sensible thing and shoots it. Shotgun blast right to the face.

It jerks its head. Shudders. For a minute he thinks he might have blinded it at least, but then it blinks away the mucus dripping from its damaged eyes and howls because he's pissed it off, and that's _all_ he's managed to do. So much for salvation by shotgun, and his brief moment of surprise at its failure to even dent this meat tank is almost his undoing because he's frozen in place for that one second when-

It charges.

It's the stalls that save him - he dives into one to duck the avalanche of muscle and bone and virus-puss, then swings over the short partition into the stall behind it, then dives forward into the back walkway.

Just in time, too, because Daisy the Hellcow is apparently strong enough to rip through the aluminum siding of the stalls, and she starts tearing into them in his wake. Wires snap, panelling dents, metal shrieks as bolts are ripped right out. Leon's got mere heartbeats before she's through, but it's enough of a lead to keep him out of reach as he sprints madly for the far exit, a pair of massive double doors still half-open.

He tumbles through with bare moments to spare, but it's enough for him to scramble to the side and slam the button to close it. Flash of lights and the sour tone of a warning klaxon, and they grind shut right in Daisy's face.

She doesn't like that. Bellows her anger and slams into the barrier like Pistachio before her. But those doors are a foot and a half of solid steel, and Leon's fairly confident it'll hold her for now.

Breathless, sweaty. He leans back against the doors and grimaces to feel the tremble in the metal with each of Daisy's hits. His lungs ache. His legs ache. His left shoulder, scared from where Annette Birkin shot him so long ago, _doesn't_ ache - it smolders, old pain brought back to life by overexertion. But that's all familiar to him, and he's able to push it aside and take stock of where he is now.

It's another lab, of course. But the equipment in it is . . .

"It's like the BTK's version of a dairy," he mutters as his gaze travels over the eclectic mixture of milking apparatuses, scientific stations and what looks like some sort of bondage dungeon's used furniture. The lighting is poor in here, with shadows dripping down the walls and more than a few machines wrecked and spitting sparks, and he steps slowly forward to get a better look at things.

There's a glass tank in one of the far corners. Enormous, glowing faintly, connected by tubes and wires to the various machines. There's the shadow of a body in it, and Leon is drawn forward almost despite himself. Wrinkles his nose as he draws closer when the rough tang of ozone from the wreckage overpowers the stench of hazelnut. Peers through the haze of the fluid, frowns because it's a _guy_ in there, it's-

"_Krauser_? What the _hell_?!"

It is him. It's Jack Krauser, healed from their fight on the Plagas island two years ago, unconscious and naked and hooked up to tubes and a breather mask and Leon's not sure what else, and Leon's pressing the hand not holding the shotgun against the glass before he can stop himself.

It's warm.

It- weirdly, it makes Leon oddly aware of the man's nakedness, his vulnerability. Krauser's usually a towering creature of vicious strength and savage motion, and seeing him still like this reminds him uncomfortably of that lost time when they'd been partners. When they'd shared a tent and Leon had lain awake watching Jack sleep, comforted by the silent companionship. A charm against the nightmares of Raccoon that still sometimes lingered.

He shivers. Is that Jack's heartbeat he's feeling through the glass or- no. Just his own resonating through his bones. Has to be. Though God knows why he's so affected. It's not like this is the first time Krauser's come back from the dead, right? And it's not like Krauser deserves his sympathy. Not after what he did to Ashley, kidnapping her and dragging her into some madman's game. Not after what he tried to do to Leon, knife out and the goddamn tower rigged to blow.

Not to mention faking his death, turning to Umbrella. "You're right where you belong, you sonuvabitch," Leon hisses. "And whatever they were doing to you, I hope it hurt."

His pocket buzzes. Check-in time with Hunnigan, and he pulls out the vidphone and turns away from Krauser's tank.

It saves his life.

'HELLO, MY NAME IS Farmer Douglas' reads the nametag still pinned to the thing's ugly green overalls, the briefest flavour of absurd to the half-melted thing lunging for him. Not a Tyrant, not _quite_, with its withered left leg and patches of shrivelled muscles, and maybe it's a shade too small but-

He drops the vidphone and dodges, and it punches right through the glass to Krauser's tank. Fluid gushes everywhere as Leon stumbles away, turns, brings up the shotgun and fires.

He's dead. He knows it. Daisy the Vengeance of Burgers Past out _there_ and Farmer Doug the almost-Tyrant in_ here_ and Leon's running low on shotgun shells. The 9mm bullets Silver Ghost spits out aren't even worth considering for this. He's got no place to go and almost no chance of killing it, and Hunnigan is going to be pissed he didn't answer her call but all he can think of is _Did I hit Krauser with that shot?_ because there's something about Jack, even now when he's naked and unconscious and limp in the ruins of some Umbrella sample pod that got Leon's attention riveted, his subconscious convinced he's the bigger threat.

Still, Leon fights. Raccoon was his certain death as well, but somehow he lived through that. The mess in South America, the horrors he'd faced in Bangkok, the Los Illuminados bullshit. It had all been guaranteed to kill him but he's still here, and so he feeds Douglas every last one of his shotgun shells. Tosses the riot gun aside when he hits empty, and pulls out the Silver Ghost to keep at it while the lab around him is slowly reduced to ruin.

Dripping ichor and muscles being shredded and reformed more slowly every time, maybe he's actually hurting the thing. But it's not enough to save him.

In the end it's the lack of manoeuvrability that gets him: he's backed into the corner beside what's left of Krauser's tank, wincing away from the jagged shards of broken glass. Douglas reaches for him and this time there's no place to duck away to. It grabs Leon by the throat and he's pulled up into the air.

It leans in to bite his face off. It's just pure luck that his senseless flailing gets his arm up in time to block.

He shrieks in pain, the bright lance of agony as two perfect half-circles of needle-teeth sink into his left bicep. Rush of adrenaline, his body's last gasp at survival, and he burns it all on getting his numb fingers to fumble out his knife and drive it deep into Douglas' neck.

It howls. Drops him like a ragdoll and staggers back, and maybe it's actually hurt now. Maybe he's finally done serious damage, but it's too little, too late. He's nothing but ashes, strength snuffed out and vision going dark, and he can't even bring himself to keep his eyes open as he hears it howl again, hears the disjointed music of more glass breaking somewhere beside him.

He passes out.

~

"What's outside the doors?"

Familiar voice, but Leon can't place it. Not with fire in his veins and the smoke of fatigue clouding his thoughts. "Cow," he says past the pain, because it's important. "Crazy fucked up cow. Daisy. Don't open the door."

A soft grunt is his only answer, but he's satisfied with that.

Someone's moving around. Runs big hands over Leon's body, checking him for wounds, lingering over the bite on his arm. Familiar touch to go with a familiar voice. It's nice.

"Finally got bit, huh? Took you long enough. What's it been, eight years now since you first came into contact with T-virus carriers, and you've been fighting the infected for almost all that time? Impressive, I guess, but now it's all pointless. Tell me, can you feel the virus flooding through your blood, Comrade? Feel it breeding, eating away at your body and infusing you with its power?"

God. Is that what that pain is? Is he changing? Losing himself, the way all Umbrella's bastard children do?

"Bet you hate it. Hell, you'd probably kill yourself if I let you."

Yes. Blow his own brains out with the last of Silver Ghost's bullets. He's groping for his gun even now, or trying to, anyways, but his hand doesn't seem to want to work right. Or maybe he just can't find his gun. He can't- he can't _focus_.

"But I need you alive, Leon, if only for now. Too long in that damn tank- I need backup if I'm going to get out of here. And you'll help me, Leon. You'll help me, because I'll help _you_."

He's moved, then. Pulled to lie on his side and over the warm lengths of someone's legs, head cradled by a supporting hand, brought closer to warmth until his lips brush skin, brush-

"C'mon. Suck."

It's a nipple. And even as his lips wrap around it in some primal instinct a voice inside his mind is rousing, muttering unhappily. There's something really _wrong_ going on here, because this is definitely not a bit of play with one of his lady friends.

For one thing, none of them would be dumb enough to get stuck in an Umbrella facility.

For another, none of them _lactate_ and anyway he's pretty sure none of them would taste like this even if they did. Rich and creamy, it spills over his tongue and down his throat as he suckles. Floods his senses, washes away the pain and frosts his nerves with glittering, shivering pleasure and it's just _milk_ so it really shouldn't do this to him but somehow it _does_. Like a hit of some designer drug.

He shifts closer. Tongues the nipple, lapping at its bud, then scraping lightly with his teeth before suckling in earnest. The hand holding up his head grips, tightening its fingers in his hair and pulling but he doesn't care. His left hand is brought up to touch, knead at the second nipple and he's alright with that, too. And if the cock in the lap he's lain across is hardening, well, it just matches his own, right?

Which- yeah. He kinda wants to do something about that. Shifts his legs restlessly. Rocks his hips.

Deep chuckle, and his hand is left to toy with the nipple alone. His dick, though, gains a companion: a hot hand unsnapping his pants, dipping down into his underwear and combing through his pubes. Fingers piano along his length, wrap around him and squeeze.

He moans. Spreads his legs as best he can and licks milk from his lips. Thrusts into that sweet grip. Tries to nurse again but is thwarted because his source has run dry. Whimpers. Keeps sucking, but in vain.

"Still thirsty, huh?"

He's shifted again, and this time he gets to lie straddling the man's -because it's a guy, he's sure of it now- legs. Has got enough strength of his own back to sit up a bit and press himself close without help when he's offered the second nipple, and he drinks greedily as he humps his caretaker's thighs. Purrs in delight as his fly is opened and both of those large hands dip in to touch him.

He feels hot and wanton. Like a cat in heat as he laps up milk and offers his dick for petting. Breathes deep the musk of the body he's pressed against, thrusts into stroking fingers, gasps and pants and sucks frantically at the nipple. Rubs his face against it, against the broad chest and hot skin and soft curve of pecs which is also strange because muscles shouldn't feel like this but it's _good_, very good, wonderfully good, and his muscles lock tight, his back arches and head tips back and he comes.

He collapses as his body goes limp, as his mind blanks and nerves sear to bright blinding pleasure. It's like he's floating. He smiles. Hums contentedly in the aftermath of sex and milk, licking his lips. Licks the fingers he's offered, too, though he wrinkles his nose at the taste because it's not the sweet liquid light he'd been suckling down.

"Tch. Almost forgot how good you looked like this." A thumb presses against Leon's lower lip. "Got such a pretty mouth on you, Comrade. You'll suck one last thing for me, won't you?"

Yeah. Sure. Anything, he'll do anything because he's happy and feels good and the entire world has gone soft and warm. Wants to share that with this wonderful person who jerked him off.

One last bit of shifting, and this time it's a dick he's offered, not a nipple, but he takes it into his mouth just the same. Swallows eagerly, loving the feel of it going right down into his throat as he opens and dips, lower and lower, then pulls back to suckle the head like it's an ice cream cone. Melting ice cream that drips down his fingers and onto the pavement - exactly like that because the dick drips long milky threads for him as well. Precome in lovely pearls, and they taste almost as good as the milk. He drinks them up eagerly. Nuzzles the cock in wordless encouragement. Takes it into his mouth again and squirms with delight when it spills over his tongue, a gush of hot, hot fluid he swallows in mouthful after mouthful.

Humans don't come like this, maybe, or taste like this either, but he can't bring himself to care as he sucks the cock dry.

His belly is full. The pain is gone. Afterglow settles on him like warm summer sun, and he dozes in the arms that pull him close.

~

Consciousness. Actual, reasoning consciousness and not the muddy half-awareness he'd been mired in, even if he does seem to be in the grip of the worst hangover of his life.

"Oh God," he moans. Scrubs at his eyes and shifts against the warmth cradling him. Which is a mistake, of course, because it makes his headache bloom into a glorious migraine, all throbbing petals and bloodshot thorns. Even the faint light of the monitors around him is too much, his own _heartbeat_ is too much, and he swallows convulsively with a mouth that seems filled with sand and tries desperately not to puke.

"Awake again, Comrade?" His chin is grabbed and tilted up, and he whines plaintively at the motion. Pants, agonized, as one eyelid is pried open and he's forced to look up into the face of-

"Krauser!" It's meant as a yell, but comes out a strangled gasp, and Leon thrashes about, trying to break free of what has suddenly gone from comforting embrace to a confining hold. Another mistake, and this one makes him shudder and slump and grip his guts as his stomach starts to rebel.

"_Don't_ puke," Krauser says, and he shoves Leon down so he's sitting folded in Krauser's lap with his head between his own knees. "Deep breaths, Leon. If you bring up what's in your guts you'll lose your only hope at fighting off the virus in your system."

That catches his attention. Is enough to make him hesitate, then relax into the position. Infected. Yeah, he remembers that, getting bit by Douglas. Bites his lip at the memory and runs shaking hands through his hair.

"You . . . dosed me with a vaccine?" he mumbles.

"Not quite. More like some antibiotic."

Leon snorts, stares down at the camo pattern of Krauser's pants. "'biotics don't work on viruses. You mean an anti-viral."

"Whatever. I gave you a dosage of anti-bodies that will help you fight the infection. But it was oral, so if you puke it all up you'll waste the effort. I haven't got another dose ready at this point."

Weird way of saying it, and Leon frowns to himself. Something's nagging at the back of his brain, a vague memory of the past hour, and he fights to make it clear. Krauser had dosed him with an oral-? He touches his lips.

And then his eyes go very, very wide. "Tell me I'm not remembering _sucking on your tits_," he grinds out. "And then on your goddamn _cock_."

Krauser just chuckles, shifts his legs slightly and settles his hands on Leon's hips. "Best fuck I've had in years, Comrade. Nice to know you haven't lost your gift."

"_You sick-_"

The elbow Leon sends smashing back toward Krauser's face is easily blocked, and he snarls as Krauser reaches up to grab his hair and hold him still. "Play nice, Leon," the big man snarls. "You owed me at least that much, since I've saved you from becoming one of _them_."

"Was that with your breast milk, or just the amazing powers of your healing dick?" Leon snaps back sarcastically, momentarily ignoring the bizarre nature of the situation.

Krauser raises an eyebrow. "It was the milk, actually. I didn't get all the details before the labcoats stuffed me into their damn machine, but apparently the stuff is full of antibodies."

". . . you're kidding."

"Feh. If only. I spent over a year in that tube because of it," Krauser says, jerking his thumb at the wrecked glass pod, face twisting with mingled disgust and rage. "And there's probably enough files here on the subject to fill a library. All I know is that it's some wacko pregnancy evolution to go with the milk."

"Except you're not pregnant." Horrible thought. "Uh. Right?"

Krauser bares his teeth and glares. "No."

Leon eyes him dubiously for a moment, unwilling to put anything past Umbrella, past Krauser himself. He'd let himself be infected with what was essentially a mutant, parasitic, mind-controlling _squid_, after all, and who knows what that thing did to his innards.

Wait.

"It's the Plagas," Leon breaths in sudden understanding, the scattered pieces to this crazed puzzle finally falling into place. "They're asexual -or is it hermaphroditic? It's messed with your body. That's why you're lactating."

"It's not important," Krauser snaps. "What's important is getting out of this hell hole. I'm too rusty from being in the tank to take on whatever it is beyond the doors alone, so we'll work together long enough to escape, and then we can go our separate ways."

On the surface it's not a bad offer. There are all kinds of reasons not to take it, though, and a dangerous psychotic like Krauser being let loose to wander the streets not being the least of them. "I'm not exactly in better shape here. How 'bout I just call for backup? Less risk."

"I'm not letting the government take me into custody," Krauser says flatly. "We both know they'd have me opened up like a used ration tin in less then a day, and I've had enough of that with Umbrella. No, you're going to help me escape before your friends in high places come knocking, Leon. And if you're really good, I'll even have you cured of the virus by then."

More dangerous implications. "You mean that one dose wasn't enough." Not even a question. "And I suppose if I don't cooperate you'll kill me?"

Krauser's laughter is low, rich, and chilling. "Oh no, Comrade. That's too easy a fate, and one I know won't scare you into staying in line." He smiles. "If you don't cooperate, I'll _keep you alive_. Hold you down and keep you safe and watch you as the virus slowly takes over, and then I'll let you loose to spend the rest of your miserable existence down here as a zombie."

"You-" know me too well, he doesn't say. But that truth still hangs between them, and Leon is forced to concede. "-bastard. Fine, we'll do things your way. But I hope you've got a hell of an ace up your sleeve because Daisy's not gonna be easy to take out. That thing took a shotgun blast full to the face without blinking, and after Douglas I've used up everything but my handgun ammo. And I don't even have much of that left," he adds.

Krauser's voice is confident as he replies: "I can kill it. I just need you to keep it occupied."

Which of course raises the question of how long Leon himself will stay alive after the thing's been killed. Still, it's more of a hope then Leon had before, and so he's willing to try.

"When do you wanna do it?"

"Now. Get up."

Leon knows better then to protest. Krauser's kept him alive because he's useful - bitching about how his head hurts and his legs feel like twisted straws isn't going to help reinforce that impression. Instead he staggers to his feet, swaying, and takes the few steps away to lean against the wreckage of a nearby desk.

Behind him, Krauser stands as well, and Leon really registers for the first time that the guy's not naked anymore, got back his boots and camo pants, his tight black shirt. "Where did you- never mind." The Umbrella scientists had probably kept Krauser's clothing somewhere. And speaking of Umbrella personnel, "Where's-" his eyes scan for Douglas. Spots the roughly man-shaped tar stain. "Right. Well, that's a relief, at least."

"You gonna finish a question, Leon, or just babble all day?" Krauser asks as he steps up to the double doors. Leon doesn't miss how he's got the empty shotgun in one hand, how he's got Leon's knife tucked into one of his boots. Probably picked it up from Douglas' corpse. And- yeah, he's got Leon's handgun, too, tucked into his waistband, but that he pulls and tosses to Leon. "Here. You can have this back as long as you don't do anything stupid. C'mon."

It feels good to wrap his fingers around the grip again. Illusion of safety. He takes his place by the doors and readies himself. His head still throbs brutally, but at least he's losing the wobbliness. "So I just run out there and keep it busy long enough for you to knife it, or are you gonna kill it with your massive ego instead?"

"Don't worry, Leon. My massive _ego_ is reserved for you - no-one else does such a good job sucking it." And before Leon can snap back a retort: "I'll be knifing it, but not with your toy. I've got something a bit bigger to use." The skin of Krauser's right arm writhes, flushes red, and then his flesh melts and shifts and reforms into the nightmare blade he'd used in their face-off on the tower.

Leon shudders, grits his teeth. Krauser's not human. He's _not human_ anymore, and that's something Leon's sickened by each time he remembers. If Krauser opens his mouth wide, will there be a great eye there, peering back at Leon the way there was with Saddler? Will tentacles sprout from his neck if his head is severed?

"Get ready," Krauser says, and Leon forcibly pushes it all from his mind. Takes a deep breath. Frowns, because the scent of hazelnut is back and overpowering the ozone from the broken lab equipment, but maybe that's just-

Sharp bark of the warning sirens again. Daisy'd apparently gotten bored and run off elsewhere, but she comes charging back as soon as the doors begin to open. She slams into them impatiently, trying to shove her fang-lined muzzle through the widening gap, and it's too good an opportunity: Leon steps in front of her and shoots out one of her glaring red eyes.

It makes her howl and lunge, her head poking through finally, neck beautifully extended, and Krauser doesn't waste the chance either. The enormous blade that his left arm has become swings down, half severs Daisy's head in a great gush of blood and black ichor, jerks out and comes down again as Leon keeps firing, drilling his bullets through the damaged eye and into Daisy's brain and that's it, it's off. Falls to the ground with a great thud, and Daisy melts just as all the other twisted creatures before her. The double doors open, and her liquid remains gush into the lab and all over Leon.

"Figures," he mutters, lip curling with disgust. "Extra arms and eyes are no problem, but Umbrella still can't-mmph!" Leon gasps as Krauser comes up and grabs him, seals their lips together. Kiss, Leon's brain tells him, but his body says it's so much more.

It's the way their lips mash together, the way Leon's jaw is forced open, the way their teeth hit and hurt and Leon'd pull away but can't because Krauser's jerked him close, has his blade arm pressed against Leon's back and the other's hand buried in Leon's hair. Trapping him, crushing him, pinning him in place despite Leon's initial thrashing and flailing, and gradually forcing him into shivering, angry docility.

It's how Krauser's tongue pushes into him then, strokes the roof of Leon's mouth teasingly before caressing Leon's tongue, rubbing against it in slick, wet motion. It's the press their bodies together as their muscles strain against each other's, the teasing knee Krauser's shoved between Leon's legs, the heavy musk of the man Leon's forced to breathe in with every inhalation, and most of all it's the taste - that sparking, bright, wonderful taste.

Leon can't remember Krauser tasting this good in the long-past years when they used to fuck. But he does now. A sort of bright tang and sweetness that's so sharp it makes Leon's mouth ache and water for more. He groans and opens wider, relaxing at last into Krauser's grip, surrendering to Krauser's tongue and touch.

Teasing rock of Krauser's body against Leon's, against Leon's straining, aching _cock_, and Leon's legs give out and he's forced to ride Krauser's knee, suffer more of that sweet pleasure as his hands clutch at Krauser's shoulders. His chest heaves as he tries to get enough air in through his nose, his heart races and sweat beads at his temples and it's a fucking good kiss but it's not _this_ good, really- shouldn't affect him the way it is and Leon knows it. Can't understand it. Doesn't want to right now, lost in the play of Krauser's mouth on his own, the way those scarred lips move and feel.

God but he loves the way Krauser tastes.

It's over too soon, which really just means it's over at all because if Leon had a choice he'd spend the rest of his life being tongue fucked by Krauser at this point, and that- that's a dangerous thought. A strange thought.

Adrenaline? Is it the rush of danger and survival that have him reacting this way? He doesn't know. Shudders and wipes spit from his lips with the back of his hand, glares poison and daggers and stumbles backwards, away. "Back off, Krauser," he snarls.

"Just thought I'd reward you for a job well done, _Comrade_."

"Next time try a pat on the back." Is he shaking? He is, if only a little. Does his best to push past it, steady his hands and slow his heartbeat. Ignore the awful tightness in his pants, the way his mouth feels used and bruised and tingly with aftertaste. Gotta get rid of that taste.

Gum. He's always got gum on him, for mindless physical motion when he's forced to sit in place for hours on a sniping gig. Pulls it out and pushes a strip past his lips, but the artificial strawberry flavour seems faded, weak compared to rush from Krauser.

_What am I, sixteen again?_ he asks himself. _Am I gonna have to go back to reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to keep my mind off sex when I'm trying to work? And here I thought I was past the crazy hormone rush phase._

Distraction. He needs a distraction. Steps into the cow room, boots going splish splash though Daisy's remains, and scans for more danger. There's nothing there but the twisted aluminum wreckage, sparking wires and smashed stalls, but he's still swearing because the doors he first came in through have been warped and pounded shut by angry mutant bovine hooves. There's no way to go back the way he came. There's another exit, though, at least, just a few feet away from the door he came in by.

"Looks like the shortcut's been blocked," Krauser comments from behind him. "Not that it matters. I was planning on taking the south-west exit anyways. It'll take us out to the train yard, and then to the company farm."

A train yard. Of course. Because Umbrella never does anything small, and Leon was an idiot to think that this lab was nothing more then an ice cream parlour and a few dubious offices.

Wait.

"Is that how they were getting the cows here? By train?"

Krauser grunts affirmative and strides over to the other door. It slides open obediently when Krauser swipes a keycard through its reader, and Leon's pretty sure that's one of the ones he took from the bodies in the sewers because it's just like Krauser to have taken everything else of use when he took Leon's weapons.

"Then how did the cows get to street level? The local cops thought a truck had overturned, but-"

Thoughtful blue eyes and a tilt to Krauser's head. "Don't think about it. The cows aren't your concern anymore, and we're headed for the farm, not the city."

But Leon can't let the idea go. Freight elevator, maybe? Or some alternate passage? It's the possibility of escaping from Krauser, and he turns it over and over in his mind as they set off down the new corridor.

As they walk, Krauser's arm shifts and melts, returns to human seeming. It makes Leon's stomach churn, his skin crawl. Not human, not human, _not human._ And he can't understand it. The man he'd bled for, slept beside and fucked had been better then what Krauser is now. What changed? What made him falter?

. . . could it happen to Leon?

They're questions that haunt him as he walks side by side with Krauser through the tangled mess of Umbrella's hidden lab, worry him with 'what-ifs' and 'how-comes' until his head starts to ache again, until he pushes it all from his mind and forces himself to focus on the danger at hand.

There are more labs down here, with huge windows letting out on the hallway so they can see in as they pass. Rows of glass tubes holding freakish, warped samples: pigs and dogs and rabbits, what might have once been some kind of octopus, a sloth and a pair of porcupines over by the back. Umbrella apparently choses its test subjects via roulette wheel and Leon's especially unhappy over it because there's an entire row of sample cases shattered in one of the labs. Shattered _outward_, and there's nothing but scrap and trash left in the labs that held them, and the ruins of air ducts through which whatever it was apparently escaped.

"Guess Daisy isn't gonna be the last thing we'll need to take care of," he says, nodding toward the busted tubes.

Krauser frowns and squints in at the lab. "Shit."

"Any idea what was in those?"

"There's probably some kind of file or something. Hang on." Krauser tries the door, finds it locked. Tries the keycards Leon had found, but neither red nor blue works. "Damn." He peers at the reader. "We need a yellow one. Might be one on a body somewhere, or a spare tucked away. The eggheads Umbrella employs tend to forget the damned things in the dumbest places."

"Yeah? Well I don't know about you, but I think it's better we get the hell out of here then stick around trying to get into some lab," Leon says, gun at the ready and nervous gaze on the overhead air ducts. His body aches, a dull throbbing through every vein that he pushes aside as unimportant in the face of unknown danger.

"Agreed."

They make their slow, cautious way down the halls until they hit a T-junction, and with it, a quaint little alcove complete with water cooler, vending machine, and fire exit floor plan.

Krauser studies it a moment, then traces out a path with one thick finger. "This should take us right out of here."

Leon stands on his toes, steadies himself against the wall as his legs tremble and peers over Krauser's broad shoulders, ignoring the leaded feeling growing in his limbs and searching for his potential escape route. "Command centre," he reads, and the memory of why he came down here to begin with flashes through his mind. "That's my mission objective." His gaze traces out the path. He swears. "Figures it's past a goddamn maze."

"Which is why we're not going."

"Krauser-"

"_My_ decision, Leon." A glare and a snarl, and though the shotgun is still empty it'll make a great club if Krauser decides to go for him. If he doesn't just ram that arm though Leon's chest, knife him with Leon's own blade . . .

Shit.

Not like Leon's in any condition to fight him at this point, either. He's starting to feel seriously ill again, and has to fight to stay something close to seeming normal. This is important - Sampson'd be pissed if the town blew up from below. Hunnigan would never let him hear the end of it, would probably cancel the lunch date Leon had finally coaxed her into.

"Then you might wanna consider _deciding_ to change your mind," Leon gets out from between gritted teeth. "Every Umbrella facility comes with a self-destruct sequence, you know that. And it's even odds the thing will somehow accidentally go off while we're still in this place unless you let me go shut it off."

Krauser gives him another thoughtful look. "Is that what you're doing down here without backup? Shutting off the self-destruct sequence?"

"Yeah," he says shortly. He rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. Flinches when Krauser bats away his hand and stares into his face.

"Looks like you need another dose, Comrade."

"Wha-?" Oh, God. Krauser's peeling his shirt off. "No. Not-"

"Shut up." The shirt is dropped to the floor, and Krauser pulls him close. "It's this or the T-virus, and I don't feel like listening to you bitch about the choice we both know you'll make."

He's got a point, maybe, but Leon can't help but shudder as his head is pushed down to Krauser's chest, face rubbed against Krauser's pecs. It's not like he has man tits- actually, it would probably have been easier for Leon to cope if he had, because that's something that's at least human, normal. But instead they've just got a soft and yielding layer, and Leon brings up his hand and prods in horrified fascination, his fingers sinking into the smooth swell of them.

Krauser grunts, inhales sharply. His hands twitch across Leon's skin, his teeth grit. "Watch it."

Leon frowns. "You're. . . sore? Tender." Gentles his touch as he strokes again, trying to come to grips with this alien situation, to mesh the idea of _Krauser_ of all people with a softness he'd linked with women until now. Jerks his hand back as if burned when he gets a deep, pleased purr from the man.

This is all kinds of fucked up.

But it's not like he's got a choice, right? And he's done worse things then this. Hell, it's not even like he's never touched Krauser's nipples before, actually used to tweak them when they fucked because he liked the way it'd make Jack- make Krauser's breath hitch, get him boiling glares at the tease. It's just the whole milk thing that's throwing him off, but it's no weirder then tentacles erupting from someone's neck, then mutant newts and cows with fangs and everything else Umbrella has thrown at him, so Leon can suck it up and . . . suck. On Krauser.

Swollen nipples, flushed deep rose with blood. Erect and straining, and despite himself Leon licks his lips at vague memory. Leans in. Brushes his lips against the left one, mouths it, and there's the faintest hint of wetness that he laps up without thinking and it's that _taste_ again. That incredible, wonderful taste, and he's glued to Krauser's skin before it even fully registers.

Hiss at his sudden force as he suckles, and he pulls back just enough to lick wet strips across Krauser's skin in apology, runs his hands along Krauser's sides, rubs their clothed dicks together to make him feel good, to make him happy, to keep him _still_ for Leon to nurse from. Leon remembers what Jack likes. Remembers _everything_ though he won't admit it. And he puts that knowledge to use now, unbuttoning Krauser's pants and dipping inside to play with his dick, thumb the head over and over in slow passes, trail fingertips along the big vein.

Delicate touch has always been the key. Krauser likes to twist and hurt his partner, and Leon always panted for more as the rush of endorphins in his system sent him into shuddering highs, but when it comes to petting Krauser to his own peak it's all coaxing, slow and gentle.

So that's what Leon uses. Stripes off his half gloves as he swallows down mouthfuls of warm milk, lets them drop to the floor. His hands are steady and careful on Krauser's shaft, the way you treat a fine rifle. His hips roll, press, add just the right amount of force and heat. Like waves, slow ebb and flow of pressure, and Leon's palms are getting damp with sweat and Krauser's precome, his biceps are getting bruised from where Krauser grips him, vivid red hand prints like scarlet lilies on his skin, and the thought makes him moan around Krauser's teat.

The milk on his tongue has gone from light and silky to rich cream to nothing as Leon suckles the last dregs of it. Sighs. Laps the tender nub, toys with it with his tongue and then delicately bites. A few last drops. Then there's nothing left. He reluctantly switches sides.

He's being used, now. Krauser forcing Leon's legs apart as he tugs him closer, shifts him as he pleases to get their dicks to rub just right. It's awkward and Leon snarls petulantly in annoyance as he's tugged away from his treat. Cranes his neck forward, mouth open wide and tongue straining, gets what he wants in quick stolen little bursts as he's made to grind against Krauser's cock. Gives in, finally, and unsnaps his own pants, pulls out his dick for Krauser to thrust against, and he should have done that to begin with, maybe. Heat against heat. Not enough. His own hips jerk in helpless need, cock curving back up toward his belly and flushed red and dark and full. Ripe fruit. But he doesn't taste as sweet as Krauser.

He's aching for release, aching for pleasure, aching for something _more_ though he's not sure what it is. His body shakes in Krauser's grip, a soul-deep tremble as senses are overloaded, his chest heaves as he takes frantic gulps of air between drinks, his vision goes dark and his ears start to ring and his mouth goes numb, totally numb as what he's sipping down burns out the nerves in his lips, his tongue, his throat with sparkles of cold delight. And it's still not enough.

His eyes clench tight. Around him the air stinks of sex and Krauser, of sweat and gunpowder and hazelnut. His hand can barely close around their dicks as he jerks them both off, and as Krauser's second breast runs dry on him he's sobbing and shaking.

"More," he pleads, rubbing his face blindly against Jack's chest. "Krauser, you bastard. Gimme _more_."

_Pain_, as Krauser's hands clench even tighter on Leon's arms, nails digging in, as Krauser jerks him up and close and bites him on the shoulder and it makes Leon's hand spasm around their dicks they both shudder and climax, spilling all over Leon's fingers, spattering both their bellies. It gets all over their fronts, and though Leon sputters to an end, Krauser comes in great, milky, glistening threads for long moments, longer then he used to, longer then a human man maybe should but Leon doesn't care because the colour is an opaque white just like-

-he brings up his hand and licks, and yes, _yes_ it's more of that taste and he's stuffing his sticky fingers in his mouth and sucking them clean, licks away the stuff on the back of his hand with a clumsy tongue, sucks spatter from the hem of his shirt and finally drops to his knees and goes at Krauser's dick, coaxing out the the very dregs of his come for Leon to swallow.

And that, finally, is enough.

~

Leon stays on his knees, face pressed to Krauser's legs as his brain swims though the swamp of sensations flooding his system. He feels limp and shivery, mouth almost numb with the cool tingles you get from too much mint, fingers restlessly stroking at the laces on Krauser's boots. Amazing texture. Amazing colour, black but navy at the edge, crisscross pattern that he can't quite seem to follow.

He's high.

The realization of it, a strange and beautiful truth, comes slowly to him. Like a rising sun, all new colours added to his world. He's _high_. He's high on _Krauser_. He's high on Krauser's milk, he's high on Krauser's sperm. That's just-

He laughs. Helpless and amazed, he laughs at the ridiculousness of the situation, at how awful it is and how wonderful he feels despite that. Rubs against Krauser, eager for his touch, eager for his favour. "You sonuvabitch," he breathes. "It's not just antibodies that's in your milk, is it?"

Krauser crouches down to kneel beside him. Takes Leon's face in his hands and kisses him deep, full of tongue and spit and more zinging pleasure.

"And it's not just in your milk," Leon continues as they break apart. He lets himself be held. Closes his eyes and smiles, bitter. "Lemme guess: it's some kind of natural upper." His tongue runs over and over his teeth, searching for that last elusive taste.

"You ever wonder how the Plagas managed to spread before Saddler's little cult?" Krauser asks him. His hands smooth over Leon's face, Leon's hair. Leon's eyes open to slits to stare at him. Krauser's dick is still out, hanging from his fly. Leon's fascinated by the sight, by the blushing pink colour and the glisten of his spit on it. Has to tear his gaze away so he can answer.

"They used spores, right? The file about the miners mentioned them. Said that's how the village infection started."

"The spores are the infection vector, sure. But we've always needed a little bit extra-" he touches Leon's mouth, "to keep the hosts safe and on hand while waiting for the parasite to take root. Saddler tossed most of that aside looking to go faster, but sometimes the old fashioned way works best."

"_'We'_?" Leon repeats carefully. Shudders as bright horror stabs though his haze of pleasure like a knife, and his terrified gaze locks with . . . with whatever the hell is holding him. "Just how much of you is Krauser, and how much of you is that _thing_?"

He's kissed again, and this time it's the hard, vicious press Leon remembers from their times before. The bite at his lips, the forcing his jaw open so his mouth can be used, violated. Familiar. All Krauser. All lie?

"You'll figure it all out soon enough, Comrade," Krauser says. Then he stands, hauling Leon with him. He tucks his dick away, and Leon numbly follow suit, mind still fuzzy but getting clearer.

"We going to the Command Centre?"

". . . yeah." Krauser pushes the Silver Ghost back into Leon's hands. "Take point."

~

The route to the Command Centre takes them past two more labs, some kind of processing facility, and the ice cream plant. It's hard for Leon to resist- he lingers outside the door, before finally giving in and taking a peak in.

"You hungry, Leon?" Krauser taunts. His tone makes it sound vaguely lewd.

Leon doesn't even waste a glare. "The zombie who'd been the ice cream parlour clerk kept going on about 'pistachio'. I wanna check if there's something to that or if it was really just his favourite flavour."

White on silver on white. The place is on the small side, antiseptic in a cold and spare way, with great blocks of machinery spaced about and cartons neatly stacked in a far corner. It makes the ruin of the air ducts, spilling outwards and down like twisted ropes of intestine, the battered remains of what seems to be the freezer, all the more shocking.

"Hoofmarks an inch deep into a steel door. Now there's something you never wanna see," Leon mutters. Steps fully into the plant and peers closely at the freezer door. "I think-" It's been warped, but a bit of tugging gets it to budge. "Guess the T-virus can't help people tell the difference between push and pull doors. So much for scientific progress."

Muffled sound of Krauser fighting back a chuckle, and something in Leon twists a bit. He'd liked having Krauser as a partner, and this uneasy team-up that comes bundled with sick kisses and twisted intimacy hits too close to home. Especially with its delicious candy-coating of Ecstasy, or whatever it is Krauser's Plagas produces that's getting Leon high. He'll have to go through detox when this is-

-detox.

Is Krauser addictive?

It's like a thousand-thousand roaches skitter across Leon's skin as a crawling, revolting feeling of violation rises up within him, and he has to fight not to retch and call attention to himself. Focuses on prying open the freezer door until he can get his reactions under control, and when it finally does pop open the miniature tragedy it reveals temporarily banishes Leon's own from his mind:

There are three people huddled inside, frost in their hair, skin turned grey and white and blue. They look like labs techs, still bundled in their white lab coats and huddled together for warmth, arms wrapped tight, tight around each other. They probably hid in the freezer to escape from whatever it was and froze to death.

He aches, but it's more for the fact that he _can't_ feel for these people. They worked in the Umbrella labs and they had to know what they were doing. So even this most basic, most human of deaths can't move Leon to pity. All he feels is a vague sense of satisfaction, like ash and dust on his tongue.

Krauser, all business, moves past him and searches the bodies.

"Don't get bit," Leon says absently, turning his attention back to the door. The hoof prints are smaller then what Daisy would have made, but not by much. And there's more now that he's looking. Odd double impact marks, like the treads of enormous tires. They've been mostly obscured by the hoof prints, but it's certainly enough to get him thinking. He moves on from there, starts reading the labels on containers, find a clipboard left on one of the machines.

"We got lucky," Krauser reports. He shows off a bright yellow keycard. "Hopefully, the cold won't have damaged it. Got some keys and spare change, too."

Leon snorts. "Great. Next time we find a vending machine the Milkduds are on you. Seems that pistachio was the flavour of choice for testing the side-effects of the antibody booster they were creating with the milk from modified cows, by the way. I guess that's why the clerk kept going on about it. Maybe he thought it could save him."

"Fat chance of that." Krauser sneers. "There's only so much you can do with trash. Let's get out of here. There's nothing more for us to find."

Leon tosses aside the clipboard and follows obediently. His gun is steady, his steps are sure, his face blank of anything but concentration. But inside his mind is a whirl of facts and possibilities. Umbrella's bizarre ice cream scheme, the potential horrors that trapped those scientists in the freezer. And then there's the intriguing possibility of what Krauser implied with 'only so much you can do with trash'. But most of all, the possibility of addiction.

Is he addicted to Krauser?

. . . no. No way.

Sure his reactions to- to the guy's milk, to his semen aren't normal. Considering what Krauser's become pretty much any form of enjoyment of that kind of thing is probably classified under 'disturbed'. But that's easily explained by whatever upper Krauser's body is producing. Leon's got no craving for it, no need, no desire.

He's not addicted, Leon tells himself. Eyes the curve of Krauser's pecs that's just subtly _off_ and licks his lips. Nervous.

Right.

He could do with a nice distraction right about now. Something to take his mind off the tangle of issues that just seems to worsen the deeper they get in this place, but everything is eerily quiet but for their own steady footsteps. Is there nothing left in this corner of the facility? Did everyone evacuate?

"Everyone was probably eaten by whatever cornered those poor saps in the freezer," Krauser says into the silence, and Leon hates how the man's mind follows his own so closely.

"Something like the sewer rats, maybe?" he offers despite himself. "They stripped their victims right down to the bones. They don't even seem to wait for their victims to die- I shot a couple of them and they got cannibalized before they even stopped twitching."

Krauser's grunted "Efficient" is all the reply he makes.

_Monstrous things don't phase you when you're a monster yourself,_ Leon tells himself, and hates Krauser even more.

The only highlight to their walk is the extra security station and the scant ammo they find. Yellow sticky notes rain to the floor as they search, this one reminding Tamil to file his monthly report, that one about how Irene accidentally reset the main computers' password to the default. In the end, they come up with a couple more boxes of 9mm and a single carton of shotgun shells. Hardly what Leon would call resupplied, but it'll have to do.

They find the Command Centre shorty thereafter. Umbrella, ever mindful of the safety value of clear labelling, has helpfully printed the words out in foot-high lettering above the door. And it turns out that to be a good thing they took a little side trip in the ice cream plant: it takes all three of the keycards to open the door.

Of course, once it's open Leon's left wondering if it might have been better to leave it shut, because standing scattered throughout the room are the horrors that broke out of the tanks, that crawled through the ducts, that probably ate everyone in this wing of the facility . . .

"I think- I think they're _sheep_," Leon mutters. "Well. Were sheep, anyways. At some point. Probably."

"I'll take your word for it, country kid."

They certainly don't look much like sheep now, distorted and stretched out as they are, with front legs twisted into something like arms and hind legs ropey with muscle. Their eyes are glittering wet rubies, their mouths insectoid chewing machines. What's left of their wool hangs in limp clumps matted with blood, a grim testament to their apparent ferocity.

And there's a ram, of course. A great over muscled thing by the back, with enormous horns whose curlicue patterning will probably match the odd prints Leon'd noticed on the freezer door.

By silent agreement Leon and Krauser stand tense and waiting outside the room - they're best bet is to stick to the doorway in hopes of bottlenecking the herd's charge, and pick them off one by one. That is, if the damn things don't go back through the ventilation system, and how the hell did they manage that to begin with, anyways?

Leon frowns. Shifts his grip on the Silver Ghost. No reaction. There's no reaction from the herd. They simply stand, scattered through the Command Centre like it's their personal meadow, mouths chewing at air in robotic constant. The cow -not Daisy, but Bessy, the the very first one he'd seen back at the beginning by the quarantine fence- had been like this, and on a hunch he steps through into the room.

Twitch of an ear. The slightest of clatter as a hoof is raised, dropped- but nothing else.

Bessy had been that way when Leon had gone past the fence. Totally uninterested as he strolled past. Harmless.

But these . . . not-sheep, woolly . . . _things_ obviously attacked. So why are they now-?

He wracks his brain, runs through dozens of possible scenarios.

_"What the fuck are you doing?"_ Krauser hisses at him from the doorway, voice barely loud enough the carry.

As one, the- the 'Woollies' turn their heads. Stare. Krauser freezes, silent and utterly still. One heartbeat, two, three, four, five-

-at eight, they loses interest and go back to staring at space. And Leon understands.

When the Woollies had broken out of the tanks, the scientists would have panicked. There'd have been running, screaming. Threatening noise and motion, something that would upset normal sheep into stampeding. But the Woollies are T-virus carriers, made stronger, faster, and decidedly more aggressive. They'd have attacked.

It fits, and he grins as he slowly, slowly puts away his gun and turns to Krauser. Puts his finger to his lips for quiet, and then makes his way step by step toward the computer banks.

Shivery, heady feeling to move among the horrors like this. The smell of hazelnut is intense, but it's not enough to kill the rich putrescence of soured blood, and Leon has to fight not to flinch back from the rough scrape of soiled wool on his skin as he passes between them. A walk across eggshells, and when he makes it to the enormous bank of monitors that is the main computer station he doesn't even risk pulling out the chair. Just bends over and twitches the mouse.

The monitors come alive before him, but the login screen insists on a password. The memo in that guard station they'd resupplied at had said the password been reset to the default, but then what-?

He glances over his shoulder at Jack. Motions the man over with a slight jerk of his head.

There are more tingles of fear as Krauser has to slip his bulk past the Woollies, but for all his size and brute force, he still manages to move with easy grace and utter silence. Dangerous, Leon tells himself as he watches the play of muscle under Krauser's tight shirt. Reminds himself not to mistake the man for any kind of tame house cat - Krauser is all big, sleek puma.

Krauser leans in, too close and too familiar, and his breath is hot on Leon's cheek as he whispers, "What?"

"D'you know Umbrella's default password?" Leon mutters. He determinedly keeps his eyes on the screen before him and very much does not steal a taste of Krauser's mouth. It's right there, he knows. All he's got to do is turn his head and lean in, and Krauser will do the rest.

It's a hell of a lot more tempting then it should be, then Leon ever thought it _would_ be. The mental picture of it, the possibility, is a kind of itch that he's twitching to scratch.

_What was that about not being addicted?_ he asks himself, and swallows with a throat suddenly gone dry.

"It's the company motto," Krauser answers. Leon can feel the man's gaze boring into him. "But fucked if I can remember what that is."

Leon grunts and fishes through his buttpack, pulls out the heavy silver paperweight he'd picked up in the sewers. Krauser's eaten all of Leon's emergency rations, he notices. Bastard. "I picked this up for resale," Leon admits, "But I guess it'll do more good here. 'Umbrella: Preserving the health of the people,'" he reads off its polished silver face. He sets it down beside the mouse and types the motto into the password field.

The damn thing plays a triumphant little jingle at him as it opens to the desktop, and he grits his teeth and braces himself for impending attack. The Woollies shift uneasily, ears twitching, but settle down relatively quickly. Maybe they're getting used to the noise?

He hopes so, because the keys clatter loudly as he begins to type. He gets a few looks this time, heads turning to watch, but when nothing further comes of it the Woollies go back into their daze. Weird creatures, but Leon's not complaining.

He fishes through his buttpack again, this time pulling out a flashdrive. He inserts it blindly into the machine, opens it-

". . . nice tits. I thought you preferred dark women, though," Krauser says as the preview thumbnails display photo after photo of blonde, lush women in high heels and not much else.

Leon scrubs his face with his palm and fights back blushes. "It's not mine. I picked it up off a dead security guard in the sewers."

"Hey, we're all men here. Don't have to make excuses." Leon can hear the grin in Krauser's voice.

"Fuck you, Krauser," he grumbles, and yanks out the flashdrive. Freezes, because the herd did _not_ like that, and then slowly sets it aside and inserts the other drive from his 'pack, the experimental one Hunnigan had given him.

This time the flashdrive obediently produces what he'd been wanting: the auto-install loading screen for the worm programme that would upload the facility's databanks to the government mainframe and simultaneously wipe clean the self-destruct sequence. If all went well this place would soon be nothing but a harmless, empty shell.

"How long'll this take?" Krauser asks. He's moved in even closer till they're pressed together, side by side.

"Too long," Leon mutters under his breath, then says louder, "Maybe ten minutes. We only need to stay to babysit it long enough for it to prep the data for upload and locate and isolate the self-destruct sequence. I'll need to input my confirmation code at that point. After that it'll take care of things automatically and we can leave."

"Good. Plenty of time for us to take care of some business in the meantime."

Prickle of alarm. "What-?"

And then Krauser leans in and nuzzles Leon's face, coaxes Leon to turn toward him and presses their lips together. Kiss. Kiss of death, of damnation, Leon's blood and passions suddenly surging, his cock coming to painful and abrupt life, his body pressing back against Krauser's.

"Shit," he sobs as Krauser's hands reach down and unsnap Leon's pants. "Don't-"

"Shhh," Krauser reminds him, and Leon has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from gasping and moaning and bringing the herd of Woollies down on them.

Bastard. Fucking _sonuvabitch_. Taking advantage of the situation like this means Leon can't fight back, can only snarl soundlessly and bare his teeth in impotent rage and fight to keep as still, as quiet as possible as Krauser puts his hands into places they've no business being. Leon's fury burns, _flares_ within him, a dark mirror to the desire that smolders through his body and nerves under Krauser's touch.

His teeth dig in, break through his own skin as he bites furiously at his fist again. Krauser chuckles and unbuckles Leon's belt and sets it aside on the computer desk, pulls down Leon's pants, his underwear, just low enough to bare the curve of Leon's ass.

"You'd be amazed at what you pick up from being Umbrella's guinea pig," Krauser says conversationally, voice pitched low and intimate. "D'you know suppositories are more efficient then oral doses? Hell if I know why, but those fuckers sure liked telling me every goddamn time they shoved something up my ass." He sucks on his own fingers, and Leon trembles in mingled outrage and horror and sick-making _want_ as he realizes where this is going. The touch of those fingers, damp with Krauser's awful, wondrous spit drags an honest to God _mew_ right out of Leon's throat, and he can't stop himself from arching his back and raising his hips as the rush of delight flows though him.

"Just like a cat." Big hand up and down Leon's spine in a fond caress, then down to grip Leon's hips and brace him as Krauser pushes the head of his dick into Leon.

Uncomfortable - Leon hasn't done this in years. But Krauser makes slow progress inwards, helped by Leon's craving, by his treacherous body opening for the chance at more of that pleasure, and the progress bar for Hunnigan's programme makes for hilarious subtitles to the act: 'Installing. . . loading at 3%, 4%, 10% . . . '

Fifteen percent. Fifteen percent is Krauser's balls brushing Leon's ass as he settles fully inside, is Leon feeling full and achingly stretched and invaded, hot, hot and sweating under Krauser.

He wants to moan. He wants to pant and beg and plead and curse, claw at the desk and punch Krauser and thrash about in agonized need.

He stays utterly still instead, the slight tremble of his limbs and the deep, sucking breaths he pulls in all he allows himself. The Woollies are watching them - he can see their reflections in the monitors, and this is just like Krauser, _just like him_, all hopped up on adrenaline and testosterone. Just like the time on the island, with mutant fucking sheep instead of dynamite rigged to blow.

Fuck.

Which is what they do, of course. Or maybe just what Krauser does _to_ him, as Leon stays locked in place and panting, sweat dripping off his face, soaking his hair, his clothing, spattering the desk and floor. Jack moves in slow-motion behind him, and Leon's got to admit the man's control is impressive even now.

Words into the shell of his ear: "That's right, nice and still, Leon." And he hangs his head in shame, face burning in humiliation, in mortification because he's not sure how much of this is to avoid getting eaten and how much because he loves this game too. No noise. No movement. Like the quickies they'd steal in supply depots and washrooms, it has to be absolutely discreet.

"A good dicking to get you properly hooked -ungh!- You'll be easier t'manage after this," Krauser mumbles. "Better. . . better be, anyways. Not enough time t'screw this up." He mouths the base of Leon's nape as he moves in again, tongue wet and slick on Leon's skin, and he's shaking too.

It's a seemingly endless moment, dragged on and on and _on_, and Hell is maybe a little like this, and Heaven too as Leon wishes he'd dare slip a hand between his legs and jerk himself off but doesn't really need to because whatever Krauser's doing back there is starting to feel phenomenal.

Pre-come, his brain guesses, but the rest of his body is singing that it's mana from heaven, that it's liquid delight, that Krauser can fuck him anytime and anyplace and yeah if he wants Leon to bark like a dog that's okay too. Easy to manage? Leon'll be easy to manage. Leon'll do whatever Krauser says. Chokes and gasps and _shatters_, body convulsing, ass clenching on Krauser's dick and pushing the man into sudden, wrenching orgasm.

It's as if all of Leon's strings are cut in that arctic blast of sensation. He collapses, and it's only Krauser's grip on him that keeps him from tumbling forward into the computer desk, bouncing off to slither into a heap on the floor as the world whirls around him in glittery, exalted fragments. He traces the tendons of Krauser's hands in fascination - it's like they glow. And it's a damn good thing the air seems to have been switched with clinging, slowing syrup that keeps him from doing anything quick or abrupt because Leon doesn't have the control at this point to stop himself from squirming and rubbing up against Jack.

He's dick is still hard, too. He pouts at it, plays with it, shivering in delight until it fountains and drips its own reels of come between his fingers.

Of course, then his hands are a mess. He licks them clean in languorous passes.

"You need to enter your code, Comrade," Krauser prompts him.

Leon peers closely at the computer screens. Has to squint and turn his head sideways before he can make out the words and, oh, right. His personal code to confirm activation.

It's a meaningless string of numbers and letters, and forcing himself to remember and type it in it drags him partway out of his haze. Not much, but enough so that when the second prompt comes up for any additional data he might wish to include little warning bells sound in his mind.

There's something he needs to write here. Something important. He frowns.

"Leon."

Jack's so impatient. "I- yeah, sorry. Hang on a sec." His hands hesitate over the keys. What was-? If only his mind wasn't so damned foggy. If only he wasn't so fucked up by Krauser, by whatever the hell Krauser pumped into him with his come. Goddamn bastard making Leon into a junkie, and yes, _yes!_ That's it. Gotta tell Hunnigan about that.

Because it's against regs to become a T-virus infected, milk addicted, nympho. Leon's sure of it. And as a good agent it's his duty to report that kind of flagrant violation of the rules. That, and he owes it to Hunnigan to let her know how badly he's messed up.

She'll be pissed.

'After this I'm retiring,' he writes. It's the code phrase they'd agreed on, the one that lets Hunnigan know something's gone horribly wrong. He hates using it - they had a date, after all, and now he won't make it because he's a walking biohazard and that phrase will make sure she has him shot on sight. 'Make sure the reclamation team watches out for Daisy. She's immune to shotguns.'

He chews his lip and tries to re-read the message four times before he manages to make to the end and actually remember the start. He's satisfied with it, though, once he does. Hits the send button. Sighs and leans back against Krauser.

"We can leave?"

"Yeah. We can go."

Krauser grunts in satisfaction. "Good. The damn sheep are creeping me out. Freaks watched us the whole time we were fucking."

"Glad to know everyone had a good time," Leon says with a vague smile. He curls up in Krauser's embrace, wraps his legs around the man's hips and lets his body be carried out, his mind carried off by pleasure.

~

The Woolies are still following them. Leon can hear them scraping through the air ducts, lizard-like. Can smell the hazelnut stench of their bodies. He shifts his grip on his gun, checks the ammo for what feels like the hundredth time.

"They'd better not want a encore," he grumbles. The sparks have faded from his nerves, and though his legs are still wobbly he's entirely rational at least. And all too able to remember making a spectacle of himself as those blank-eyed horrors stood around and watched, mouths ceaselessly moving, spittle dripping from their mandibles.

"We'll lose them at the train," says Krauser confidently, but Leon doesn't miss the tightening of his fingers on the shotgun, the cautious glance up at the ceiling ducts.

_Nothing like the idea of Umbrella monsters crawling out of the ductwork to keep you on your toes._

Truth is, neither of them are quite sure why the Woollies are following them, and it's got them on edge. It might have been easier to deal with if the things had followed through the halls, but they apparently prefer to move about unseen through the narrow tunnels of the air circulation system, and somehow they always seem to stay apace. It's uncanny, especially when Leon makes the mistake of glancing up at an air vent and catches sight of their glittering red eyes peering back, notices the faint motion of their mouths in the dark.

Leon grits his teeth and breathes deep. They're almost there. Krauser's sure of it.

And it looks like Krauser's right. The corridor they'd been following turns a corner and suddenly spills out into the vast expanse of a one-track underground train station.

It's mostly raw space, with the tracks down the middle and a pair of unloading platforms, enormous crates here and there and bank of lockers by a far wall. Spare train carts off to one side along with a crane. And, of course, the train itself, sleek and grey and polished, ready to speed off with its single passenger car.

Over to the left there's what looks like a yardmaster's tower, though it's really more of a booth down here, and that's what they head toward.

Krauser scans the area, but it's more habit than out of any real caution - they already know where the main threat is, and until it comes out of the vents they've no real targets. "It's all automated from here," he explains absently. Tries the door handle and finds it locked. Scowls.

"Hang on," Leon says. Studies the little pictograph over the keyhole and glances about. Where-? Hah. Bingo. There's a decorative pair of lamps set by the tower's door, both engraved with the same rearing oxen, and a quick inspection leads him to the backup mechanism: the light posts turn in sections, chunks of one making chunks of the other switch around. Fiddling with it will start up a silent alarm back at the Command Centre, but at this point that's not really a concern. Instead, Leon spends a quick three minutes getting everything aligned just _so_, and is rewarded with a satisfying click as the lock to the door opens. "Gotta love Umbrella's just-in-case security measures."

"I never have patience for that shit," Krauser grumbles. "I usually just break the door down."

"Thought we might wanna avoid that kind of thing considering our friends up in the vents."

Krauser sucks on his teeth briefly. "Hmm. We might have a problem with that. A train isn't exactly quiet."

"Shit."

They're silent as they mull it over, stepping inside and taking in the equipment.

"Maybe if you just make it go really fast? When you get right down to it the Woollies are only freaky sheep. They aren't built right for- what?"

"_Woollies_, Leon?" There's all flavours of incredulity dripping from Krauser's words.

"Yeah. Why? Were you calling them something else?"

Krauser stares at him for a moment. No expression. It's an uncanny mirror to the Woolly's face Leon can see over Krauser's shoulder, watching them from the air duct in the back wall. ". . . no. Not any more, anyways." He turns away and begins inspecting the control panel, grunting in satisfaction and toggling a few keys. Finally, he inputs something into the main keyboard. "There. Maximum speed, and we've got three minutes to board. Let's go."

Breaking into the train is simpler then they'd thought simply because it isn't locked. They have ample time to case the thing for zombies and then settle into the passenger car. Green velvet and silver-steel fittings. It's relatively plain, but it's good quality, and the ever present Umbrella logo is at least a discreet carpet pattern this time.

"At least we'll ride in style," Leon says, and goes to sit by a window. Stops. "Well, there's an unpleasant sight."

"What is it?" Krauser comes over to stand beside him. Swears.

The Woollies have gathered on the platform. Huddled together and staring at the passenger car, they sway slightly from side to side, mouths opening and closing like those of fish out of water.

"Think they'll try to board?" Leon asks. Does a quick headcount - they're all there as far as he can tell.

"I wouldn't put anything past a T-virus carrier." There's admiration in the tone, and Leon bristles to hear it.

"If you like the damn things that much, then why don't you go out and fuck _them_ into submission?" he snaps. The train starts moving, a faint tremor through the car, the noise of the engine rumbling to life and things slowly begin to lurch forward. He has to brace himself against a seat back to keep from staggering.

Krauser just grins at him. "Don't be jealous, Leon," he purrs as the train picks up speed. Faster, faster. "I still think you're the prettiest-"

_THUNK_.

Sharp, loud, hollow sound on metal, directly above them.

_THUNK, THUNK_. Two more follow, and their heads whip toward the windows as one, curses and swearing spill out of their mouths as they realize what's happened: three of the sheep have _jumped_, are clinging to the train car like oversized geckos - Leon can see the sticky pads on the malformed hooves and pseudo-hands they've pressed against the window, and a shudder of revulsion rips through him when they squirm around to press their distorted, insect mouths to the glass. Lampreys on the silver fish that's the train.

"Fuck," Leon mumbles as he takes in row after row of backpointed teeth those moving jaws had hid. He's got the Silver Ghost aimed and ready, doesn't even remember having drawn it. "We gonna shoot these things now?"

"Dunno," Krauser says shortly. "Hang on, lemme check something." He moves to the door at the back of the car, peers out the little round window. "Shit. The others are following. They're running along the goddamn _walls_. No fast enough to catch us, but. . . "

Leon's mind races. Faster, faster. The glass of the car windows starts to fracture under the suction of the Woollies' mouths. Memory sparks, because it's just too much like Raccoon. "We can move into the train and decouple this car. If we're lucky, they'll be distracted by it long enough for us to get away."

"Worth a try," Krauser says, and they rush to the other door, the one that opens out into the gap between the locomotive and their car.

This time things are harder. The system is automated, so no-one is really supposed to get into the locomotive. It's speed against discretion, and Krauser finally curses and clenches his left fist, and it writhes and drips into the familiar evil blade. He slams through the heavy metal of the locomotive's door like it's papier mache, practically tosses Leon in before stepping in himself and turning to shear through the cables and chains connecting the train car.

Leon covers him, awkward and unsure with the swaying, the speed, the angle, but still keeps his gun up and ready because at this point shitty aim is better then no aim. They're lucky - sparks fly and metal squeals, but no Woollies come to investigate, and the last of the couplings are sheared away. The locomotive lurches forward as it's burden is suddenly lifted, and Leon goes stumbling backwards further inside, Krauser thrown in with him.

They land in an awkward heap, arms and elbows in each other's faces and kidneys. They grunt, squirm, untangle, but only so that Krauser can flip Leon onto his back and seal their mouths together, press their bodies close.

Leon keens softly as Krauser pulls back. Pants open-mouthed, damp. Hot, burning from the inside all of a sudden even as his mouth feels tingly-cold to the point of half-pain. "Seriously," he gasps out. "Why- why didn't you just go back and lock lips with a few of 'em? Woolies- never woulda stood a chance." He runs his hands along Krauser's back, over the span of Krauser's shoulder. Trails his fingers down the blade arm despite himself and shivers with a perverse kind of thrill to feel it pulse and warm under his touch. Sick, _sick_.

Krauser licks Leon's lips, paints his open mouth, the whiteness of his teeth and the slickness of his tongue with saliva. Pauses to say: "Wouldn't have worked. The chemical makes non-Plagas sick; that's why they had to get the cows in to try and duplicate the milk thing. It's only addictive if you're a host."

_What?_ Instant ghost-pain just under his diaphragm, and Leon tenses because- "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not a host, I _killed_ my parasite."

Laughter. "Did you _really_ think that would erase what had been done? The Plagas changes you, Leon. Fucks with your body, the hormones and shit in it, just like you said. Just killing the thing doesn't reverse those changes. If you'd left it in your parasite would have produced the stuff I'm feeding you on its own," he continues, "but since it's gone and I can't reinfect you, well. I guess you don't have a lot of options."

"On a tight leash," Leon snarls in echo of Krauser's words back on the island, and somehow leaning up to bite and cuss and fight becomes leaning up to kiss and lick and suck, becomes spreading legs and surrendering.

"Just how I like you," Krauser confirms.

~

Arrival means that Krauser stops kissing him, smacks Leon in the face a few times to sober him up. The underground train station is smaller here, and it stinks of cows and sweet hay. There's less machinery, and more rope and shovels, pitchforks, pens for the cattle.

The train grinds to a halt and they clamber out the back and onto the tracks, then up onto the platform. Leon pauses, cocks his head and peers down the tunnel back toward the Umbrella city facility.

Krauser frowns. "What is it?" His voice is strong even though he seems worn, left hand back to normal and the line of his shoulders sagging. No stamina because of being in that tube for so long.

"Dunno. Just paranoia, maybe. But- I think they're coming."

"Shit. You serious?"

"Yeah." Though Leon can't say how he knows. Just an instinct, a prickle at the back of his neck that tells him something is out for his blood.

But Krauser takes him seriously - trusts Leon's instincts to keep them both safe, apparently, and wordlessly leads them both toward the exit at a jog. An elevator this time, and the ride up is silent and tense. Both of them know that this won't lose the Woollies if the train ride didn't. If the things can climb through air ducts then an elevator shaft won't be any kind of challenge.

The cheerful _ding!_ the elevator makes as it lets them out into one of the back stalls of a barn is wholly unappreciated at this point. Leon debates deliberately leaking messages to suspected Umbrella sympathizers about their stupid taste in sound effects. Remembers that he's most likely going to be shot by government agents before he can get around to that, and suffers a brief moment of cognitive dissonance. He kinda wants to be killed at this point, doesn't he? Addicted to Krauser and carrying the T-virus, he's a walking hazard to public safety. His need to eradicate Umbrella's virus and his instinct for survival tangle, choke his mind and freeze his body, making him stumble as he exits the elevator.

Krauser catches him. "Now what?"

"I- nothing. Never mind."

"Hmm." Krauser leans in, and it's a kiss only _not_ because he stops right before their lips touch and Leon finds himself unexpectedly straining for contact, for taste. Shivers when Krauser's breath feathers over his mouth when the man says, "Spill."

Hesitation. Because Leon's been trained for a lot of situations and of course he's been put through the standard interrogation class, but that had all axed on _pain_. Torture and threats, and maybe there was a skimming little touch on seduction but that had been about women and not about _Krauser_. Krauser and his fucking kisses. Leon can't stop staring at his mouth, at his lips. Can't stop _remembering_, and the wave of craving rises up in him, pushes him forward to try and press and take but Krauser holds him off, easy.

"Spill, Leon," he insists. Licks his lips, just to taunt. "You want to."

Yeah.

"And it's not like there's a reason not to. They'll never know. It'll never matter," says Krauser. That's standard persuasion, at least. Doesn't mean it's ineffective, though.

"Especially since I'll be dead no matter what choice I make," Leon agrees bitterly. Laughs. "I sent in the code phrase to alert the government I need to be neutralized," he says. Smiles crookedly as Krauser's eyes narrow, as a frown twists those scarred lips. "Guess you can kill me yourself now for being a liability. Unless you wanted to leave me for the Woollies."

"I'm not giving up on my second gun." Krauser's voice is as firm as his hold, keeping Leon close. And now he kisses Leon, brief but deep, a sudden rush of sensation that vanishes as quickly as it came. "You're the only backup I've got. You're coming all the way with me, Leon."

"I-" It's awfully hard to protest when everything has gone briefly glittery-bright and beautiful, when Leon feels so good. When there's suddenly the chance to survive.

"It's not a question, so shut it. Figure out how we can escape your damned Woollies."

He's supposed to _die_, though! Doesn't want to, not after how hard he's fought, the hells he's crawled through, but- but-

The Silver Ghost is in his hand. Maybe it's about time he thought of changing his diet to lead? Krauser wouldn't be able to stop him in time, not when he's worn out and looking for escape, distracted by thoughts of Woollies.

He teeters on the brink.

But Krauser is moving, striding out of the barn with sure steps, and Leon follows after in pure reflex, and that's it, he's decided. Chooses, as he always has, to live.

Because hell, maybe Krauser really _can_ cure him with his wacky magical milkshake. And addictions can be broken.

There is still hope.

So he does his share of scanning the farmyard Umbrella has led them to and grabs Krauser, hauls him behind some hay bales stacked by the barn, out of sight of the farmhouse when he spots the cars: a pair of matched black SUVs just a shade too generic, with tinted windows and ominous silver car top carriers. He doesn't recognize the license plates, sadly. It'd be nice to know who was sent.

Krauser studies the cars as well. "Those aren't Umbrella. Your people?" And at Leon's nod, "They move faster then I'd thought, 'specially if they only found out about this place from the info you sent in."

"Hunnigan has a lot of pull. And- I'll have been tagged as high priority for elimination. They're probably securing the house at this point, but we don't have much time."

"Steal their cars?"

"Bad idea. They'll have GPS tracking." Leon thinks a moment, eyes narrowed, calculating. "We might be able to raid their car top carriers, though. That's usually where they store the heavy firepower, and they've got standardized combination keypads, not padlocks. There's a good chance they haven't changed the codes yet and I can still access their supplies."

Krauser snorts. "Should be easy. No-one competant would have left the cars unguarded. There's not even a sentry in the windows. Make a dash for it on three?"

The high pitched squeal of tearing metal is his answer, and the pair of them freeze behind their hay bale shelter and trade tense glances because it's coming from behind them, from the _barn_, because it's the goddamn Woollies again and this time they don't have a train to carry them away.

But they do have a distraction it seems.

Three agents in discreet slacks and worn jackets come tumbling out of the farm house, guns drawn. Young, all of them, and Krauser's right: they have to be new with how uncoordinated they are, how they rush to investigate without checking on their cars, without looking for ambush. Three guys dead on their feet.

"Move," hisses Krauser, and Leon's up and running without question because they won't get a better chance than this.

"Wha- _HEY! Freeze!_" bellows one of the agents as he spots them running. Sharp crack of a single gunshot as he fires at them and misses, but nothing more follows because his attention is ripped back toward the barn, toward his coworkers who are suddenly swearing and sprinting for the farm house. "Shit! Fuck! What the h-" is all the unlucky man manages before the first of the Woollies leaps out of the barn and tackles him, fastens that terrible mouth to the man's chest.

Krauser and Leon have reached the cars by now, Leon focusing on nothing more then opening the carriers and _not_ on the hideous, strangled screams from the dying agent. Plugs in the eight digit codes and crosses his fingers and lets out an explosive breath in relief as the lock pops open.

There's ammo. There's shotguns and rifles and even a small box of grenades.

"Guess I was such a good boy Santa came early," Krauser yells over the howling, the screaming, the shots being fired by the remaining two agents and the gurgling bleating from the Woollies. He's grabbing a grenade even as Leon heads to the other car carrier. Pulls the pin, spins and throws.

He's just in time to catch the Woollies that are slinking out of the barn doors. Grins in vicious satisfaction as they're hurled backwards by the blast.

"That's Kennedy!" someone yells, and Leon's forced to duck, locks on the second carrier half-opened.

High priority. Beyond anything else boiling out of Umbrella's toy chest, Leon is the one they'll target because Leon has all the skills, the training, the secrets and dirty truths. He'll have been coded as a red-level threat. Hell, Hunnigan probably coded him as _infrared_ to judge by the frantic cussing and the hail of bullets that hit the cars. The idiots aren't even aiming at the one Woolly that's still crouched out in the open over the corpse of the fallen agent, and the sliver of humanity Leon keeps tucked away even in the storm of violence winces away from the sight.

It's bloated like a tick, raggedy sides distending as it lingers over the husk of what had once been a man. It sucked out the poor guy's guts, Leon realizes. And now it chews with slow purpose on the corpses face. Crunches through bone and gristle, gore all over its face and red eyes still so horribly alien and blank.

The car window above Leon's head splinters. A shot buzzes past Krauser, too, that's enough of that - Krauser's keeping the rest of the Woollies in the barn, is keeping them all alive, and Leon's damned if he's going to let these idiots get them all eaten. He leans around the car and fires two shots. Against humans he doesn't need more the that. Has got one in the shoulder, the other the leg, and that'll be enough to keep them down and out until he can get into the carrier.

"Out of grenades," Krauser yells, and switches to a rifle. He's not as good a shot as Leon, but he's solid enough, and his first round goes right between the eyes of the creature lingering outside the barn.

"We won't need any more," Leon shouts back. Because he's opened the second carrier.

Because inside the second carrier is a rocket launcher.

"Drive it back into the barn!" Leon screams, and Krauser obeys without question, driving the Woolly back and back, keeping the others under control and pinned down, and as soon as the thing is in position Leon shoulders the launcher and _fires_.

There's nothing quite as satisfying as the bright bloom of an explosion. Scarlet blossoms and sooty petals, billowing clouds of dust and gore as the missile simply evaporates that Woolly. The rich smell of cooking meat, fire and smoke as the barn starts to burn, and he can hear the squeals of pain as the rest of the herd dies in agony.

His grin is bright and victorious, and it stretches wider, glows brighter when Krauser turns to smirk at him.

There's a silence that settles along with the dust, the pair of them panting and sweating and grinning like idiots because they're still _alive_ and that's a wonderful thing. Krauser comes over to him and this time when they kiss Leon is open to it, and their tongues slide against each other as quiet cursing lets them know the other two agents have survived as well.

"Hey," Leon mumbles as they break apart. He nuzzles Krauser's jaw. "Don't kill 'em. We can lock 'em in the basement or something and slash their tires instead."

Krauser studies him. "You'll come with me."

". . . yeah." If only to keep tabs on Krauser and make sure he doesn't leave a swath of death behind him. That's what he tells himself, anyways. Licks his lips.

"Fine."

They wind up leaving the agents locked in the storm shelter, stripped of guns and gear and tied with rope from the barn. Their car tires slashed, their cellphones and radios wrecked.

And they themselves drive off in the old tractor that had been parked beside the barn. Discreet enough in farm country, they'll ditch it in a field somewhere and slink off into the woods, find a car to steal from someone's driveway, and go from there. Leon drives. Krauser eats, filling up on the supplies that they stole from the farm house kitchen.

He's guzzling grapefruit juice right now, and Leon can't help but glance at him from time to time. His throat is parched. His head is beginning to ache.

He reaches, not for the juice, but for Krauser's shirt. "'M thirsty."

\- end


End file.
